


The Late Night Ramifications of Getting Shot in the Ass

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-28
Updated: 2009-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not surprised to find Rodney in his bed when he makes it back to his quarters, but the naked's unexpected, as is the fact that he's mostly asleep, the sheets pushed messily aside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Late Night Ramifications of Getting Shot in the Ass

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of 3.04, Sateda.

John's not surprised to find Rodney in his bed when he makes it back to his quarters, but the naked's unexpected, as is the fact that he's mostly asleep, the sheets pushed messily aside. He's sprawled on his belly, and one of his ass cheeks looks pink and sore. John wrinkles his nose, takes a few steps closer, and peers at the half dozen stitches Beckett put in place.

"Hi," Rodney mumbles, face half-obscured by a pillow. "It itched."

"Your ass?" John asks.

"Bandage."

John nods uncomfortably. "Thought he numbed it up for you?"

"Can't forever," Rodney says on a heavy sigh. "He sucks."

John shrugs out of his jacket, hangs it on the back of a chair. "Got that right." He rounds the bed as he pulls his t-shirt from his pants, kicking Rodney's boots out of the way as he goes.

"Ronon?" Rodney mumbles. He shifts to look over at John, wincing as he moves.

"He's fine. Knocked out cold, stitched up again." John balls up his shirt and throws it in the corner, unfastens his belt. "He'll be sore as hell tomorrow."

"Mmmph," Rodney manages and buries his face in the pillow again. "Fucking Wraith."

John sits on the bed, unfastens his boots, pulls them off. "Yeah."

"Fucking Wraith and their fucking games and their fucking . . . "

"I know."

"I mean, who the fuck does that? Who wipes out a fucking village because their prize man-toy _gets away_ and they _bring him back?_ Who came up with the fucking _idea_ of . . ."

John raises an eyebrow. "Think you're looking for sense in the wrong places, buddy."

"Yeah, well, they tried to kill Ronon, and I got shot in the ass, and _you_ were all, oh, hey, let's just hang around and kill some Wraith, because god knows, that can't go badly, and . . ."

John lays a hand between Rodney's shoulder blades, shivers involuntarily at the shock of warm skin against his palm. "Hey."

". . . not even Teyla had the sense to just shoot you in the goddamn leg and drag you back to the Jumper, not that that would have worked because of the, oh, _forty-seven hundred Wraith_ closing in . . ."

John hitches a shoulder, mustering the deliberate nonchalance that he knows makes Rodney want to punch him in the face. "I killed fifteen."

"Sure you did." Rodney sighs and closes his eyes. "Jesus. Just get out of those fucking pants."

John obliges, standing to shuck them off, turning off the lights before he eases himself down on the mattress, maneuvering by faint, reflected moonlight. He turns on his side, props his head on one hand. "You're pretty fond of fucking tonight."

"That's about the only fucking you'll be getting for the next two weeks, so make the most of it," Rodney mutters. His bottom lip's sticking out and he looks like a petulant child.

John glances at the shadow of Rodney's stitches. "Ass hurt?"

"What do _you_ think?" Rodney asks tersely, and John inches in closer, rocks his face into the pillow, lays one warm hand above the cut on Rodney's butt.

"Better?"

Rodney presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes tight closed, but whatever he's feeling passes after a second, and he lets out an unsteady breath. "Yeah," he murmurs, as if he's giving up state secrets.

John moves in until their foreheads touch. "We're all good."

"Sure we are," Rodney says without rancor. "Just another day at the office, right?"

John kisses the spot right between Rodney's eyebrows, feels the frown there smooth out into something easier. "That," he murmurs, and makes a soft, approving noise when Rodney hooks an arm around him, anchoring him close.

"Overpaid butt warmer," Rodney sniffs, as if that could cover the affection beneath his waspish inflection.

John snorts. "You found me out," he whispers, settling the tip of his nose against Rodney's forehead. "Now shut the fuck up."

"Whatever," Rodney yawns, because the last word's almost always his, but John doesn't care about it much, not when they're lax like this, and warm, and home, and the universe is short those seventeen, eighteen, twenty-six-and-a-half Wraith he killed, all on his own.


End file.
